


a third kind of madness.

by canarybird



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Artist Ashton, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Pain Kink?, Student Luke, aesthetic kinky boyfriends, ashton paints luke that's basically the plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-09-21 18:09:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9560864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canarybird/pseuds/canarybird
Summary: Unfortunately for him, he’s never really had the time to sit down and paint Luke properly. He tried before, when they were younger, but Luke had been restless and bratty, never sitting still for very long before he got bored or hungry or horny.or, in which Ashton makes the most of his time off work by painting his beautiful boyfriend Luke.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> this is the most self-indulgent piece of shit i'll ever write. also lashton isn't usually my thing but i thought they worked best with the idea.

The mattress dips and a hand nudges Ashton's hip, turning him. He goes, rolling onto his side, facing the open window, and lips touch the bend of his neck, Luke's hand settling warmly across his belly.  _You know I love you, don't you,_  and it's not a question, the boy's mouth dropping a line of open-mouthed kisses down to his shoulder, teeth nipping the skin delicately.  The hand on Ashton's stomach slips downward, following the dusting of hair like a map. When it closes around him, palm damp and familiar around his cock, Ashton lets out a shuddery sound, a single wordless syllable. Luke rocks against him from behind, hard at the small of his back, and it sends a shiver racing down through his body. “You're hard,” Luke murmurs, fingers squeezing tight around him.

Ashton hums, reaching behind himself, behind Luke, and trails his finger along the curve of his arse. From memory, he traces the small constellation of fingertip bruises there, wondering if they’re still the same shade of purple they’d been when he’d seen them the night before. As some sort of test, he presses his fingers down into Luke’s flesh, checking how tender he still is. Quite a bit, if his little hitch and whine against the base of Ashton’s neck is anything to go by. Lifting his head from the pillow, Ashton shushes Luke from over his shoulder, begins to rub where he’s sore.

Luke’s own hand doesn’t stop, working Ashton torturously slow as some sort of payback. He likes to think, like this, he’s the one with all the power, the upper hand. It’s all show, really, because the moment Ashton stops playing along, the moment he tells Luke to stop, speed up, use his mouth instead, the moment the illusion is shattered. And if that’s what Ashton wants, Luke’ll do it, because Luke is a _good boy_. Ashton told him so himself, has told him a thousand times or more. Luke’s thighs tremble at the memory as he continues to fuck up against Ashton’s back, his breath quickening.

“That’s it, baby,” Ashton encourages, his composure stagnant against the whines building up in Luke’s throat. “What a good boy you are,” he says, slipping his hand down to grip Luke’s fleshy thigh. He resists the urge to smile at Luke’s whimpering at his favourite praise. “Almost there?” he asks then, though he knows the answer fine well.

“Yeah,” Luke just about manages to breathe out, bringing his free hand to tighten on Ashton’s shoulder, wedged awkwardly between them. _Ashton_ , Luke breathes, _Ashton, Ashton, Ashton_. His voice is barely audible over the noise from the street below their window, from the thundering of his heart in his chest. He’s almost certain Ashton can feel it echoing through him. “Fuck, I’m—Ashton, can I? Can I, please? _Please?_ ”

Now it’s time for Ashton’s heart to flutter. “Of course, of course,” he says, beginning to thrust up into Luke’s hand. There’s a warmth spreading through him, but he can’t quite tell if it’s coming from his stomach or Luke’s chest pressing against his back, making their skin stick together in sweaty patches. “Been such a good boy—oh, shit, fuck, _Luke_.”

Ashton finishes first, the hitch in Luke’s breath setting him off. He closes his eyes and there’s nothing but Luke behind his eyelids, staring into space with that dim little expression on his face. He’s only aware of Luke finishing too when the body behind him tenses, the grip on his shoulder tightening and leaving little crescent-shaped indents in his skin. His own heartbeat continues to pulse in his ears when he opens his eyes again, the world coming into soft focus. The breeze on his hot skin has never been more welcome.  

“Fuck, that was good,” Luke says, his voice returning a few octaves lower.

Just as Luke is about to nuzzle into Ashton’s shoulder blades, Ashton moves his hand from Luke’s thigh to his hip, gives him a light smack. “Cloth,” he instructs, causing the younger man to groan petulantly.

Luke flops down onto his back, twists his head around and spots his dirty t-shirt on the floor. With as much grace as a man of his size can muster—only resulting in one particularly wayward kick to Ashton’s shin—he grabs it with his clean hand and gets to work cleaning them both up.

“So lazy,” Ashton tuts, rolling onto his back, but opens his arm for Luke to cuddle up with him once he’s chucked his t-shirt back onto the floor. “That was a nice way to wake up,” he says when Luke is settled, his unshaven cheek to his chest.  

Indeed, it’s the perfect start to two glorious weeks off work for Ashton.

“Any plans for today?” Luke asks him a little while later, stepping under the spray of their shower a moment before Ashton joins him. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze, but neither of them would ever complain about being in such close proximity to the other. There’s nothing Ashton loves more in the world than wrapping his arms around his boy, chest to chest, the softness of Luke’s tummy pressing against his abs.

“Nope,” he answers honestly. He hasn’t planned anything—not for today, and not for the next fortnight. Well, there is something he plans on doing a lot of, he thinks to himself, smiling into the crook of Luke’s neck and loosening his hold on the boy, letting his hands drop to his arse. “Turn around,” he whispers up into Luke’s ear.

Luke whines out Ashton’s name, content under the hot spray, but does as he’s told, if only to hear that little muttering of praise again that he loves so much. He shuffles out of the way of the water, parts his legs a little more as he stands, forehead and forearms coming up to rest on the cold tiles. The contrast between the tiles and the water causes his body to shiver, a reaction that is not lost on Ashton, who kisses his way across Luke’s broad shoulders, then slowly works his way down.

Luke knows he’s got a nice arse. He knows Ashton absolutely loves it, too. Loves to grab it and smack it and fuck it until it burns so deliciously that Luke can barely concentrate on anything else that’s going on around him. He also likes to massage it, place delicate little kisses across each individual bruise and mark that he leaves there. He’s doing exactly that now, gently pressing his lips against the traces of his rough touch, making Luke arch his back and tighten his fists against the now condensation-slick tiles.

“You still sore, baby?” Ashton asks, making Luke shiver once again, his breath on his tailbone.

“’M fine,” he says, sighing as Ashton kisses his way back up his spine. “Bit hungry, though.”

Ashton giggles. Fucking _giggles_. “When are you not?” Leaning down, Ashton grabs the shampoo from the hook on the wall. “Here, let me do your hair.”

Half an hour later, Luke’s hair is drying in soft curls as he sits out on the veranda, sunglasses perched on his pointed nose. The street below their apartment is predictably quiet for a Monday early afternoon, any noise drowned out by Ashton screeching along to the Smashing Pumpkins album he’s got playing in the kitchen. It shouldn’t be as relaxing as it is, Luke thinks, tilting his head up and letting the sun warm his skin.

He’s faintly aware of Ashton finishing up in the kitchen when the music ceases, and even more so when Ashton knocks over one of the few potted plants they’ve managed not to kill. Yet. They should’ve really got fake plants, in hindsight.

“I’ll get that later,” Ashton promises as he sits on the chair beside Luke, handing him over a plate of toasted cheese while trying to balance his own.

Luke doesn’t stop to admire Ashton’s culinary excellence before shoving the toastie into his mouth, getting grease all over his fingers. Ashton wouldn’t normally make something so unhealthy, but Luke suspects that he might be feeling a little guilty, maybe thinks that he might’ve gone a little too hard last night. He didn’t, though, and Luke makes a mental note to tell him later. He _loves_ it when Ashton coddles him, but he sure as hell doesn’t want Ashton feeling like shit, convinced he needs to make it up to Luke.

His opportunity to put Ashton at ease comes after dinner, when they’re settling down to sleep. Ashton’s already in bed, reaching over to set his alarm so he doesn’t sleep in too long; Luke rolls his eyes, standing by the other side of the bed and stripping down to his boxers. Slipping beneath the sheets, like a magnet he goes straight to Ashton, automatically encircling him in his long limbs. Usually he fights tooth and nail to be the little spoon, undeterred by the size of himself, but tonight, he makes an exception. Ashton relaxes easily in his hold.

“Love you,” Luke says like it’s the easiest thing in the world—and it is.

Ashton drags his fingertips up and down the arm Luke’s slung over his chest, then settles his hand over the other boy’s, filling in the space between his fingers. “Love you, too,” he says, lifting their hands together and pressing a little closed-lip kiss to Luke’s knuckles.

Luke nuzzles the back of Ashton’s neck. “Please don’t feel bad; you only gave me what I wanted.”

Ashton momentarily tenses, but it passes. He pulls Luke’s arm tighter around himself, falls asleep easy.

For the next two days, Ashton is without Luke for the majority of the day. He catches the younger man before he goes to work, gives him a big kiss before he leaves and waves him off from the veranda—an action so sickeningly sappy Luke flips him off from down on the street, just to save face.

Bored with daytime television within hours, Ashton sets about cleaning their apartment up a little, making plans in his head to invite his mum over next week at some point. Or maybe he’ll treat her to lunch. Yeah, that sounds good, he decides, leaving her a message on her phone to call him when she can.

One of the unforeseen opportunities Ashton takes advantage of is cooking Luke a proper dinner. He’s not fussy, neither is Ashton, and god knows what travesties he conjured up in those three years he spent down in Melbourne studying for his bachelor’s degree—three lonely, long, horrible years that ultimately convinced Ashton that Luke was the boy he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, god willing. Poking the sizzling stir-fry in front of him, Ashton remembers all those trips down to Melbourne, all the late-night conversations and crisis talks over the phone that in the end just made them love each other more.

As good as it turned out to be for their relationship, Ashton’s fucking thankful to ever deity that Luke decided to do his master’s degree back here in Sydney.

It’s silly, but a part of him can’t wait until Luke graduates at the end of the year. He can’t wait for that moment that Luke’s gets his big, fancy degree and Ashton can show him off to the world. _That’s my boy_ , he remembers thinking fondly at his last graduation, trying to get Liz to stop crying, sobbing out the same thing. God, he can scarcely imagine how proud he’s going to be. He doesn’t think his chest could fill with that much pride. Maybe it’ll be Liz or Andrew stopping _him_ from crying.

He burns the stir-fry.

On Wednesday night, he’s halfway through sucking Luke off when he figures out what he wants to do with the rest of his free time.

Working as a conservator, Ashton doesn’t exactly get to showcase the full extent of his artistic abilities meticulously rubbing cleaning solution on dusty paintings with a cotton bud. He loves it, don’t get him wrong; there’s not a lot of people that can make a living out of art, and he knows he’s lucky, but it’s a hindrance creatively. He can’t honestly remember the last time he picked up a paintbrush to paint what he wanted.

And what he wants to paint is Luke.

He’s drawn Luke before, even has a few of his old sketches framed on the wall of their bedroom; quick, rough little sketches with only Luke’s lips and eyes coloured in properly. Ashton’s favourite, one that Luke point-blank refuses to have hanging anywhere in their apartment, is of Luke’s profile, staring moodily down at his phone, looking every inch the bigger-than-his-boots seventeen-year-old boy with a brand-new lip ring and a particularly nasty outbreak of acne. _Why do you draw me when I look like shit?_ Ashton remembers him complaining. _Because that’s when you need reminding how beautiful you are._

Unfortunately for him, he’s never really had the time to sit down and paint Luke properly. He’s tried before, when they were younger, but Luke had been restless and bratty, never sitting still for very long before he got bored or hungry or horny.

“Ash,” Luke whines suddenly, snapping Ashton back into reality with a short, sharp tug of his hair. “Stop teasing, _fuck_.”  

Whoops, Ashton thinks, must’ve stopped. The fog lifts from Ashton’s mind, and so does Luke’s hips, allowing Ashton to slip a slick finger into him as he flicks his tongue across the head of his cock. “I’ve got you,” Ashton says, low, before taking Luke’s cock properly into his mouth again.  

Luke’s hands grope wildly, unsure where to settle but not chancing another tug at Ashton’s hair. He’s close already, and he almost laughs at how pathetic that is. He cuts himself off, though, moaning as Ashton pulls off again to concentrate on working another finger into him. He’s not really stretching him, not getting him ready for anything, but it still feels fucking great. Sex with Ashton always does.

Sex with Ashton is always great, even when he says, “Are you close? My jaw’s getting sore.”

“Oh fuck off, you prick,” Luke half laughs, half groans. “Should suck my cock more often, then,” he says. “Get in some practice.”

Someone’s feeling confident, Ashton muses, thrusting his fingers in and out of Luke, jerking him lazily with his other hand and dropping his mouth down to the inside of his thighs. They’re all pale and fleshy, unmarred by purple adornments. He clearly hasn’t been paying close enough attention to his boy’s thighs, so begins to kiss and suck on a spot that looks nice. Luke’s not talking anymore.

“Want to paint you,” Ashton tells him, twisting his fingers inside of him. “Naked, if you’ll let me,” he adds. “Get a nice big canvas and have you sit on the armchair. Knees tucked up to your chest. Hair mused like you’ve just been fucked. Big blue eyes looking right at me.” Ashton feel his breath get shallower, the very thought of Luke posing for him pushing him to the edge. He humps the mattress beneath him like a horny teenager. “Do you want that, baby? You’re so pretty. Would look so good. Please let me, baby. Please let me paint you.”  

“What kind of dirty talk is that, Irwin?” Luke tries to sound snarky, but his voice comes out way too high, too needy. He thrusts his cock up into Ashton’s fist, pushes his arse back on his fingers. “Ashton, I’m gonna come. Ash, Ash—” He comes chanting Ashton’s name softly, all over the older boy’s hand and his own stomach.

Luke’s cock continues twitching against his quivering tummy as he sits up, resting back on his forearms, to watch Ashton pull himself off after taking his fingers out of Luke. It doesn’t take very long, face pressed against Luke’s thighs, a gentle hand running through his hair, coaxing him through it. Neither of them move for the longest time.

“You didn’t need to ask, by the way,” Luke says, stroking Ashton’s short hair. He’s still lying with his cheek to Luke’s thigh, tracing little patterns into his hip.

“’S polite to ask,” Ashton says back, shifting slightly, moving up onto his elbows. He gives Luke a big, dorky smile; Luke’s hand doesn’t leave his hair. He tilts his head, pondering. “I was thinking oil.”

“Argan? Olive? Crude?”

“ _Hilarious_.”

There’s a certain joy that comes with observing someone doing what they love, Luke thinks, trailing around after Ashton in an art store the following day. While it’s not something he entirely understands—Luke’s got a very systematic way of thinking, perfect for finance, but not so great when he dips his toes into Ashton’s world—he could listen for hours to Ashton talk excitedly about a painting they’ve just got in at the studio. It brings him a peculiar sense of satisfaction, a warm feeling in his heart. Maybe, though, that’s just the effect Ashton has on him, even after all this time.

He’s already got a canvas under his arm—though Luke’s sure there’s some at home, shoved behind the wardrobe or something—and is currently pottering around looking at paint. _Oil paints_ , Luke corrects himself.

It’s all a bit overwhelming, really. Luke remembers coming somewhere like this to get Ashton a present for his eighteenth birthday, a decision that seemed so life or death at the time that Luke threated for days beforehand, unsure of what Ashton might want. Arts stuff was his safest bet, so he bought Ashton a bunch of fancy brushes and pencils, wrapped them up messily and practically threw them at the other boy when they met up after school that day. Luke still remembers the big kiss and tight hug Ashton had given him afterwards, beaming so brightly you’d have thought Luke plucked him a star from the sky.

 “You okay, Lukey?” Ashton asks, appearing at Luke’s side. “You’ve been staring at that colour wheel for the past two minutes.”

“Yeah, just, y’know—it’s nothing,” he settles on eventually. Ashton raises a curious eyebrow at him. “Seriously, babe. Hurry up so we can get lunch.” This isn’t entirely a deflection; Luke _is_ quite hungry.

“I’m done, I’m done,” he defends himself, awkwardly holding up a couple of tubes of paint, canvas trapped under his arm still. “Come on.”

Ashton doesn’t actually start on his painting until Friday night, and even then, he’s only getting his subject matter ready. “I’ve changed my mind,” he tells Luke, walking in on the boy watching South Park in the living-room, still dressed in his all black uniform, little nametag still pinned to his shirt. “I want you on our bed, not the armchair,” he announces, standing in front of the television. “I want you on your front, maybe up on your forearms so your back dips a little.”

Luke smirks. “Is this for your painting or in general?”  

Both is the simple answer.

“Get up,” Ashton says softly.

Luke stands with his usual compliancy, but his smirk continues to pull at the edges of his lips. It’s all a little fun at the end of the day. A silly game. He steps towards Ashton, arms hooking around his waist, leaning down to press a kiss to the side of Ashton’s neck. A shiver races down Ashton’s spine, Luke’s beard rougher against his skin than usual.

Ashton has no plans to fuck Luke in the living-room, so he catches Luke’s wrists and wrenches his hands away from him. He drops one and seizes one of Luke’s smaller hands in his own. Their apartment is small, so it takes no time at all for Ashton to pull Luke from living-room, out into the hall and into their bedroom.

Once they’re inside, Ashton shuts the door behind him, not that it matters, not that anyone will walk in on them. It’s just the two of them. It’ll always be the two of them.

“Strip.”

Now, Luke might be the most beautiful man in the world, in Ashton’s obviously unbiased opinion, but he sure as hell isn’t the sexiest. That isn’t to say Ashton doesn’t find him sexy, because he does, he really does, but there’s still a soft, clumsiness to Luke that prevents him from acting in any sort of seductive way that doesn’t make the both of them cringe. Thus, Luke stripping out of his clothes isn’t a spectacle to behold, so Ashton busies himself searching out the lube from the nightstand and turns back around just to see Luke shimmying out of his boxers—literally _his_ boxers. Ashton tries not to roll his eyes.

Abandoning the lube on the bed, Ashton takes the few short steps over to Luke, closing the space between them, his left hand dropping down to Luke’s stomach, tracing the skin with his knuckles. Now it’s Luke’s time to shiver.

“You okay?” he asks before they start. “Do you want to—”

“Yeah, of course I want—”

“Get on the bed, then.”

Luke swallows at the sterner tone of Ashton’s voice, his blood already beginning to pump a little faster through his veins. Tonight, Ashton’s going to fuck him, and tomorrow he’s going to paint him, covered in all the marks that prove exactly who he belongs to. Luke practically throws himself down onto the bed, bouncing slightly as he does. From there, he watches Ashton undress as equally as quickly as he’d just done.

Ashton looks at home from across the bed. There’s a brief second of emotion in his eyes, an unreadable expression on his face, before he flips over to his grin, his default look of admiration. “You look so beautiful.”

“So do you.”

Ashton crawls up the bed towards Luke, the muscles in his back rippling, gleaming in the buttery yellow light. Luke tenses all over, his mouth dry. He lies there, waiting, and watches Ashton come to him. The tension turns to unbridled bliss the moment Ashton touches him, his hand on Luke’s bare chest, and he can’t help himself leaning into the touch, arching up for more. Ashton leans down, licks a stripe down Luke’s throat and across his collarbone, flicks a nipple with one finger.

“You like that?” Ashton asks, bringing his head back up. Luke’s lips part, wanting a kiss, so Ashton gives him one. He catches Luke’s bottom lip between his teeth for a second. “I think you do.”

“Love it,” Luke whines, fingers coming up to twist in Ashton’s hair briefly, then run down his back, palming the hot skin beneath them.

Ashton nods, happy. “What else do you love?” he asks, covering Luke with his body.

“You,” Luke says, typically, earning himself another kiss.

“Cute,” Ashton giggles. He’ll forgive him for not playing along. “Now turn over.”

Ashton backs off and gives his cock a quick squeeze as Luke ungracefully rolls onto his stomach. He pushes his arse up a bit, grabs Ashton’s pillow and tucks it beneath his head, wrapping his arms around it. A little sigh of content escapes him as he feels Ashton nudge his long legs apart and settle between them, where he belongs.

Without warning, Ashton lands an experimental smack to one of Luke’s cheeks. They’re pretty bare now, only a few yellowish bruises left on the prominent curve of each cheek. Ashton can’t wait to see what they look tomorrow, can’t wait to paint them. He grabs both cheeks in his hands, kneads roughly, pressing down hard. Despite the pillow against his mouth, Ashton can hear Luke moan perfectly well, encouraging him to keep going.

“You’re such a good boy, Luke, I’ll never understand why you’d rather have your arse smacked instead of eaten,” Ashton says in-between alternating smacks. “It’s like you want to be treated like a bad boy, but don’t have the balls to be naughty.” Ashton stops for a moment, admires the redness; not only of Luke’s arse, but of the back of his neck. “Am I right?” he taunts. “I am, aren’t I.”

“Yes!” Luke moans, lifting his head but tightening his fists in the fabric of the pillowslip. “P-please don’t stop, Ashton. Do it again. Don’t stop.”

Luke doesn’t speak much after that, but continues to whine until he feels fingers press against him from behind, wet, the room falling quiet as they push inside but for their heavy breathing and the occasional squeak of bedsprings. He feels Ashton move behind him, covering his body, his breath hot on his neck, and then there’s the pressure; the sweet, agonizing pressure of Ashton’s fingers curling just right inside of him.

“Oh Christ,” he pants, lifting himself up onto his elbows. “Oh fuck, Ashton, please,” he says, voice tight in his throat.

Ashton pulls his fingers out of Luke, wiping the excess lube on his bright red skin, making him hiss. He touches his hip to usher him up.

“Alright,” Ashton hushes him, moving slowly, his body a little stiff.

Just as gingerly, Luke rises to his knees and turns to face Ashton, a hand loose around his hard cock. He looks beautiful—so beautiful that no painting or photograph could ever do him any justice. His body is soft and thick, adorned by a blush that spreads right down from his cheeks to his chest. Ashton beckons him closer, wanting—no, desperate to touch.

Knees either side of Ashton’s legs, Luke sits back and watches Ashton lube himself up, hand working himself with more purpose than Luke with himself, so turned on by the pleasant burning sensation in his backside. He changes tact as he waits, dropping his hand a little lower, squeezing and palming at his balls until he has to quit it altogether, afraid he’ll come too early. He doesn’t want that. He wants to come on Ashton’s cock. That’s what he wants.

“C’mere, babe,” Ashton says, voice losing some of its constraint. “Fuck, that’s it,” he moans as Luke comes all the way up to him, pressed himself flush against Ashton. Out of view, Ashton feels Luke gently move his hand away from his cock and replace it with his own, so reaches for Luke’s cock, pressed against his stomach, and grazes his thumb against the slit. “Take your time.”

Luke does, rocking down slowly, one hand still on Ashton’s cock, the other on Ashton’s chest. He’s quiet throughout, breathing in deep through his nose and out through his mouth, head down so low his chin almost grazes his chest. Only once does he lift his head up, when Ashton begins to rub his lower back gently, muttering a string of encouragements close by Luke ear. He lifts his head up and stares at Ashton with hooded eyes, his lips parted and wet, a single curl falling onto his forehead from his sweat-damp mop of golden hair. It only lasts a moment, though, and very soon Luke’s sweaty forehead hits the curve of Ashton’s shoulder.

“Doing so good,” Ashton whispers, beginning to let his hands roam a little more freely across the broad expanse of Luke’s back. “Did you hear that, Lukey? You’re doing so good.”

Luke nods against Ashton’s shoulder, and a moment later he groans, loud and low in his throat, sinking down completely onto Ashton.

Ashton wants to move. Luke feels so fucking good around him, so tight and warm and accommodating, but he knows he can’t. They do what Luke wants, at Luke’s pace, until Luke says otherwise.

“Fucking big,” Luke huffs out eventually, laughing airily into Ashton’s neck. He shifts where he sits, changing the angle of Ashton’s cock inside of him. His breath hitches at this, he jerks forward, and Ashton gets a face full of Luke’s chest. Ashton starts to kiss where there’s a light spattering of hair on the very centre of the top of his chest, and wraps his arms securely around Luke, keeping him in place. “Just another minute.”

“Take your time,” Ashton repeats, turning his head to the side, his ear by Luke’s heart. In all honesty, he could stay like this forever. “There’s no rush, sweetheart, we’ve got all night.”

“All night, huh?” Luke says, a little delayed. He rocks his hips gently, fingers tight on Ashton’s shoulders. “I— _fucking hell_ —don’t think I’ll last that long.”

Ashton won’t either, at this rate, moaning at the friction Luke’s finally creating. He drops his hands down to Luke’s arse, cups it, moving in time with him, not dictating his pace. “Tell me when,” Ashton says, squeezing his eyes just, focusing on keeping his hips still.

“Okay. Now—now you can—” Luke’s still clinging to Ashton like a vise when he eventually speaks up, but moving a lot more liberally up and down Ashton’s cock.

He starts off slowly with just short, shallow thrusts of his hips, each one pulling a small grunt from Luke. He maintains this pace, content, until Luke grabs a fistful of his hair, forcing his head to tip back. Luke is right by his face, eyes dark with lust and more stray curls falling into his face. He doesn’t say anything, but Ashton gets the message.

With his fingers pressing down, bruising, into the soft, tender flesh of Luke’s arse, Ashton keeps the younger man still, lets his own hips do all the work, fucking up into him. It’s glorious, the feeling of being inside Luke, of Luke’s thighs quivering against his, of Luke’s hands pulling at his hair.

Luke gives Ashton’s hair another particularly tough yank. “Hit me,” he fucking _growls_.

“Yeah?” Ashton coaxes, tilting his head to the side. He lets go of Luke’s arse, slows his thrusts and moves his hands to Luke’s hips, encouraging them to move. “Fuck yourself,” he instructs, “and I’ll give it to you.”

Luke needs no further encouragement to begin lifting himself up and down, puffing out his cheeks with the effort, so Ashton keeps up his end of the deal. He slaps Luke’s arse intermittently, paying close attention to the way Luke’s teeth grind together and his eyelids flutter shut. He has to kiss him, so he does, all tongue and teeth and sloppy like the first time Luke insisted that he wanted to make out with Ashton.

“’S so good, Ash,” Luke pants, dropping completely down to grind on Ashton’s cock and fuck his own up against Ashton stomach. “Gonna come soon. Gonna come so hard on you.”

“Yeah,” Ashton says lightly, then smirks, grabbing Luke’s chin in his hand. “’M gonna come so hard _in_ you,” he tells him and begins to fuck him again. “Look—look there, babe,” Ashton says, though it’s impossible for Luke not to look, Ashton’s fingers holding him tight, twisting his head around in the direction of the far wall. It’s where all Ashton’s old sketches of Luke are framed in white sleek, shiny wood frames. “You’re so fucking beautiful to me. My good boy. My _muse_.”

Ashton lets go of Luke’s face as Luke comes between them, eyes shut, jaw slack. He tightens around Ashton as his hips stutter, but he doesn’t stop. “Don’t stop fucking me,” Luke whines, reaching down to hold his cock, stroking himself, dirtying up his fist. “Don’t stop fucking me, Ash, please don’t stop,” he begs, whimpering, knocking his forehead against Ashton’s.

Ashton doesn’t stop, not until he comes inside Luke with a stutter of his hips and a pathetic little whine. He’s barely caught his breath before Luke is kissing him again, firm and needy, and he has to pull away to pant, his chest heaving heavily. When his breathing is slower, calmer, Luke rubs their noses together, smiling, satisfied. It quickly fades to a grimace as he pulls off of Ashton, settles down on one of his thick thigh, but returns again. Ashton groans as his cock gives an interested twitch at the feeling of the come leaking out of Luke onto his thigh.

“My arse hurts like an absolute bastard,” Luke announces, reaching behind himself to trace his fingers up his arse.

Ashton lets out his wheezy laugh. “Aw, poor baby,” he teases, reaching up to stroke his fingers through Luke’s curls. “Shift and I’ll clean us up.”

“M’kay,” he says, flopping down onto his stomach beside Ashton with only a small grunt of discomfort.

Ashton looks over at Luke, at the damp hair sticking to his nape, the sweat gleaming on his back, the bright red skin of his arse. He bites down on his lip as he rubs life back into his legs, dead from being trapped under Luke for so long. “Don’t fall asleep,” he warns Luke as he slips off the bed and awkwardly makes his way out of their bedroom and over to the bathroom, the force of his orgasm still rendering him a little askew.

When he comes back with a damp cloth, Luke isn’t asleep, thankfully, but playing with his phone, still laying down on his tummy.

“Sorry,” Ashton mutters before running the cloth over Luke, trying to be as gentle as possible. He knows it’s probably very uncomfortable, but Luke doesn’t make a fuss. “There we are. You want boxers or pyjamas?” he asks, crossing the room to the chest of drawers.

“Boxers, please,” Luke answers, setting his phone aside. He doesn’t chance sitting up just yet. Ashton helps him pull his them up. “Cheers.”

The mattress dips as Ashton slides in beside Luke, close enough to rest a hand gently over his clothed bum, stroking it lightly with the side of his thumb. “Was that okay?” he asks, sliding his hand up to the dip in Luke’s spine.

Luke turns his head, gives Ashton a little satisfied smile. “Fucking fantastic.”

Ashton’s stomach contorts with pride. He shuffles closer, on his side, and drapes an arm across Luke’s shoulder, cuddling him as close as possible without making him move. It’s the perfect way to fall asleep.


	2. two

Luke opens his eyes, winces into the sunlight and frowns. After a blink, he closes his eyes again and rolls onto his back, waits a few seconds to open them once more and stares up at the less blinding off-white of the ceiling. He stretches then, back arching off the bed, and scratches at his armpit. The other side of the bed is empty, the sheets cold beneath Luke’s outstretched arm and splayed fingers. Grumbling, he takes a deep breath, preparing for the pain in his backside, and pushes himself up to sit.

He finds Ashton in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water, his brow damp with sweat, cheeks flushed pink with exertion, still in his sweatpants and sweaty t-shirt. He smiles that sweet, warm smile of his as Luke trudges into his arms, nestling himself into the crook of the smaller man’s neck. “Good morning, baby,” Ashton says, skimming his fingers down his spine. “Did you sleep okay?” Luke nods into Ashton’s neck, slipping his own arms around his waist. “Still up for me painting you?”

Luke pulls his head back. “Sure,” he says, “ _if_ you make me breakfast.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Ashton laughs, nudging Luke backwards towards the kitchen chair.

Sitting at the table, Luke plucks a peach from the fruit bowl in the centre of the table. Absently he tosses it back and forth between his hands as he watches Ashton crouch in front of the fridge, inspecting its contents before pulling out a cartoon of eggs. He can smell the fruit in his hands as he follows Ashton with his eyes, the honeyed nectar staining the air. Wordlessly, he takes a bite out of the peach, barely pressing down before his teeth pierce through the soft skin, letting the juices drip down his chin and onto his thighs.

“Should put a bib on you,” Ashton says, barely looking from the cutlery drawer.

“Kinky.”

“Don’t,” Ashton warns.

Luke rolls his eyes, shifting forward, elbow resting on the table. “Have a bite,” he says, palm open upwards, fingers delicately pressed into the fuzzy flesh of the peach. A drip of juice runs down one of his fingers, past his knuckle, down the back of his hand. Ashton waits for a moment, debating whether to entertain Luke’s request or not, but eventually lowers his head down, licking up the back of Luke’s hand before sinking his teeth into the curve of the peach, getting his own lips as sticky as Luke’s. It’s soft, a moment away from rotting, but it’s delicious. “Good?” Luke asks, finger skimming Ashton’s chin as he swallows.

Ashton rubs his mouth against the back of his hand as he straightens up. “Delicious.”

Luke smiles, another flash of brightness in their already bright kitchen. Outside, the sky is blue, the colour of Luke’s eyes. It’s a beautiful day, even if neither of them have any plans of going outside today.

Ashton makes French toast for breakfast, and both of them devour three slices each before Luke suggests they shower. “You can check on me,” he says, pulling Ashton into the bathroom. “See what you did to me.”

The marks aren’t as dark as last week; they’re small, scattered, blooming like little galaxies across Luke’s skin. Ashton kisses them all out of the way of the spray of hot water, occasionally pressing his thumb into the tender flesh of Luke’s backside. Smiling, he says, “Like a peach,” and rubs his hands over Luke’s skin, from his thighs to his waist and back again.

“Bet I taste better,” Luke says, looking down over his shoulder. He’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, legs shaking.

“I bet you do,” Ashton says with a smirk, standing up properly, leaving a trail of kisses up Luke’s wet spine as he goes. He rises all the way up onto his toes. “Come on, I want to get started.”

With a quick smack to the back of Luke’s thigh, Ashton hops out of the shower, leaving his hard and pouting boyfriend behind.

“Alright, where do you want me?” Luke says, padding into their bedroom, towelling himself dry as Ashton dresses in a pair of old, already paint-splattered jeans and one of his old band t-shirts that Luke has effectively ruined with his broad shoulders. “On the bed? On all fours?” Luke suggests, whipping Ashton with his towel.

“Oi!” Ashton shouts, grabbing the end of the towel and yanking Luke forwards. The younger boy comes flying into him, still damp, clinging out his shoulders for balance. It doesn’t quite work. They both end up on the bed, laughing and swearing and wincing, Luke’s elbow awkwardly wedged in Ashton’s ribs. He pinches his waist out of revenge. “Behave.”

Luke sticks out his tongue, then licks the side of Ashton’s face.

“Gross,” Ashton whines, shoving Luke off. “Stay there,” Ashton instructs him, getting up onto his feet. “I’m going to get the easel.”  

After a minute and some thumping and swearing at the precariously stored Christmas decorations, Ashton returns, hauling an easel behind him. Luke is where he left him, awkwardly holding his phone at the angle his charger will allow, but he puts it back when he notices Ashton. He smiles and asks again, “Where do you want me?”

“On your side. Facing away from me,” Ashton instructs, setting up the easel and canvas.

“My side? I thought you wanted me on my front?” Luke asks, but does as Ashton says anyway. He looks over his shoulder at Ashton, who’s watching him, lips pursed in concentration. “This okay?”

Ashton could tell him how to adjust his position, but crawling onto the bed and manhandling Luke is a world more fun. “Kind of bend your knees a little—yeah, like that, and cross your left calf behind the other—yeah, yeah that looks good. Twist your torso a little,” Ashton says, pushing on Luke’s shoulders to dictate him. “Perfect,” he mutters, crawling backwards and standing by his easel again. “Is that comfy enough?”

“’S fine,” Luke says, looking over his shoulder. “Where’s your paints?”

“Just about to get them.”

Luke hums as he turns his head forward.

He’s not entirely sure if he’s looking forward to this or not. On one hand, it’s nice—Ashton’s happy, pottering around, telling Luke about how he’s going to start with a charcoal outline, and Luke can’t deny that he loves making Ashton this happy. Ashton is simple like that. The simple things in life make him happy.

Then, on the other hand, there is Luke’s old insecurities and warped self-image. Many, if not most, of all of his insecurities are contained within the small creases of his stomach as he lies, slightly curving in on himself. He’s an adult now, much more self-assured, much more confident, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have moments of vulnerability. Vulnerable, like when he’s laid out in bed, waiting for his boyfriend to paint him naked. He’s going to see what he looks like through Ashton’s eyes.

The thought is absolutely terrifying.

“Ash,” he croaks, heart thumping in his throat. He moves and sits up, looking around. He hadn’t noticed Ashton had gone. “ _Ashton_.”

Ashton appears a moment later clutching his glasses case, glasses already perched on the bridge of his nose. It takes him a moment to realise Luke is no longer lying down on his side. “Babe, what’s up?” he says, walking around to the other side of the bed, sitting close to Luke. He touches his hair, runs a hand over his stubbly cheek, all the way down to his chest. With a delicate touch, Ashton plays with the chain of Luke’s necklace, ducking his head down, nose almost skimming against Luke’s. “Huh, baby? What’s wrong?”

Luke is shaking his head and folding his legs into a basket. “I don’t think I want to do this anymore,” he admits, thumbs twiddling in his lap. He doesn’t dare chance a glance at Ashton, too scared to find disappointment—or worse, sympathy—on his features. “I just—”

Suddenly one of Ashton’s hands is wrapped around Luke’s, squeezing tightly in a way Luke knows well. “No need to explain. We don’t need to if you don’t want to,” he says because he’s _Ashton_. Also, because he’s Ashton, he blames himself. “You don’t like it when I draw you—I know that. Fuck,” he’s saying, plucking his glasses off his nose and rubbing a hand over his face. “I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry, babe. I should’ve known.”

This—this isn’t how Luke wanted this conversation to go. He hates Ashton beating himself up over nothing, especially when it concerns him. “No, no, no,” he tries, taking a hold of Ashton’s forearms and turning him towards himself. “I _did_ want to, Ash, I did but what if I’m—” Luke swallows hard. “What if I’m different.”

Ashton cocks his head like a dog, genuinely confused. “Different?” Ashton shifts closer, the rough material of his jeans rubbing against Luke’s bare thigh. “Different from what? Why would you be different?”

Luke only shrugs. How is he supposed to explain his fear of the disconnect between what Ashton always tells him and what Ashton might paint? What if all those words, despite Ashton’s best intentions, didn’t hold true?

Of course, the reasonable, rational part of Luke knows this is all ridiculous. He knows, without doubt, that it really doesn’t matter what he looks like—not now, and not back then, on the very first day that they met in the foyer of the cinema all those years ago. Ashton doesn’t care. Luke _shouldn’t_ care.

Ashton places a hand on Luke’s thigh, gently rubbing the pad of his thumb backwards and forwards across the soft flesh there. “It’s alright to change your mind, Luke,” he says, moving his head to press a kiss on the curve of Luke’s shoulder. “We can do something else today, if you want. I’ll put this stuff away and we can go out,” Ashton continues, lips moving against the skin of Luke’s shoulder. “Maybe go to the beach? We’ve not been to the beach in a little while.”

Luke makes a small, frustrated noise in the back of his throat. He doesn’t want to go to the beach, he wants—

Luke stares up at the drawings on the wall; the ones of him as a teenager, the ones Ashton had drawn hastily, barely even sketches, and hardly coloured in. He looks at them, really looks at them, and doesn’t really mind the boy and body looking back at him. Teeth sunk low in his bottom lip, Luke only sees art. He sees the talent and flare of the man he loves, and wonders why he wouldn’t trust him now, if he did so then. The truth is, simply, that there is no mistrust. There are no lies. Luke is exactly the man Ashton says he is, and looks exactly the way he sees him.

“No,” Luke says firmly.

“No?” Ashton asks, his grip on Luke’s thigh replaced by the slow drag of his fingertips up and down his arm.

“Paint me,” Luke says.

Ashton stiffens in surprise. His mind has been whirring with alternative ideas on how to spend their weekend that he doesn’t seem prepared anymore. He reaches up, takes a hold of Luke’s chin and turns his face to him. The thumbs the bristles of Luke’s beard. “You really don’t have to do this.”

Luke cracks a smile. “Pretty sure you said that before the first time I gave you a handie.”

Ashton grimaces, shoving Luke away slightly. “That’s not funny,” he groans as Luke begins to laugh. “And that was a terrible handjob.”

Luke knocks his shoulder into Ashton’s, almost sending him flying. “Can you blame me? I had a terrible teacher.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Ashton pinches some of the hair on Luke’s thigh in retaliation. “Pretty sure I remember you weren’t such a smart aleck back then,” he says, continuing his assault on Luke’s body by tickling his ribs.

Once their giggles have fizzled out, both their faces now a shade or two darker, Ashton kisses Luke’s temple. “Are you sure about this?” he says, picking his glasses back up and putting them on. “Put some clothes, if you want. I don’t mind.” Moving off the bed, Ashton crouches down on the floor in front of Luke. “I want to paint you in the clothes you slept in as much as I want to paint you naked. Could even give it to your mum for a Christmas present if it’s PG-enough.”

Luke scrunches his face up. “Fuck off,” he whines, horrified at the thought.

“In all seriousness, if you don’t like it when I’m done, we can, like, burn it or something.”

“Deal,” Luke agrees, but he knows that won’t be happening.

“Quality. I love you,” Ashton says, giving Luke a quick kiss as he gets to his feet. “Now get back in the position I put you in.”

For a while, all is quiet but for the sound of charcoal on canvas and the rustle of the newspaper Ashton has spread beneath his feet and around the easel. Luke would fall asleep if it weren’t for a tightness in his stomach keeping him rigid, determined not to move, to make life easier for Ashton. He can faintly hear a teenage Ashton grumping at him to stay still as he sketched him while they sat out on the curb in front of Luke’s house, nothing better to do in the summer but to waste hours in each other’s company.

A little bit like now, Luke smiles, eyes on the slightly ajar doors of the cupboard. Quietly, he hopes it’s always like this.

They take a short break after Ashton finishes up his base drawing and gives it a light once-over with the setting spray. Pillow in his lap, Luke munches on biscuits as Ashton devours another two peaches, wanting to use them up before they go off, he claims, fingers and face sticky. Luke makes a remark about who really needs the bib before getting two damp peach stones shoved in his face. _Definitely_ Ashton.

“I’ll get a bit more of this done and then we can go out for dinner. Sound good?” Ashton asks after he’s cleared up their snack. Luke looks up from where he’s playing with his phone and smiles. It’s been a little while since they’ve gone out somewhere together, time never really allowing for it. Today, however, is different, and Ashton really feels like showing his boyfriend off. “You can choose. Have a think about it.”

Pizza is what Luke settles on very quickly, describing, in detail, what he’s going to get. It’s a bit distracting, Ashton finds, so he tells him to shush, which Luke happily does, for a change.

Ashton himself is making gradual progress, currently working on the pale, broad expanse of Luke’s back. He’s a fairly quick painter, all things considered, despite his need for perfection. He reckons it won’t take him the rest of tomorrow to finish up, depending on what he can be bothered doing with the background when the time comes. The main priority is Luke, of course; is making Luke as alive on the canvas as he is in front of Ashton, laying easily on their bed.

Dithering his brush over a deep purple on his mixing tray, Ashton’s eyes flick backwards and forwards between Luke’s backside and the canvas. He sinks his teeth into his lip before dabbing the brush in the paint, stomach twisting. It’s a bizarre sensation, predatory almost. There are marks Luke asked for, that Ashton put there, and the realisation never fails to send a shiver up Ashton’s spine.

He calls it quits for the day not much long after, informing Luke just as he’s setting his paintbrush down, and straightaway the younger man legs it into the bathroom, quietly desperate. Laughing to himself, Ashton begins to clean up, but leaves most things where they are, knowing fine well he’ll be coming back to his painting tomorrow. So as to not spoil the surprise, he moves the painting into the corner of the room, facing the wall, and warns Luke not to look when he returns.

“Or else,” he warns, opening a drawer and chucking Luke a pair of socks.

They end up going to a pizzeria not far from their flat, too lazy to go into town. It’s a nice little place, Italian, with large pizzas for reasonable prices that go some way to settle Luke’s insatiable hunger. “I swear to God you were supposed to grow out of that,” Ashton remarks, jerking slightly as they continue to play a rather violent game of footsie under the table. He’s winning, but only because Luke is too busy attempting to fold an entire crust into his mouth. It’s quite easy given the size of his mouth, Ashton thinks internally, watching him with a smile.

Luke is pretty across from Ashton, his hair tucked behind his ears and chest hair peeking out from his scandalously buttoned shirt. Ashton isn’t as fancily dressed, all in black, flecks of paint stuck in the hair of his arms. He picks at them while he waits for Luke to finish, and settles back in his seat when Luke _insists_ that he pays for their pizza.  It reminds him to ask about opening a joint bank account soon—not quite marriage, but something Ashton’s been thinking about for a while now. That’ll be a sexy conversation, he imagines.

It’s a humid night. Ashton has no qualms about opening the window for the night having forgotten to open it earlier for the paint fumes to escape. Just as he does so, Luke steps behind him, wraps his arms around his waist and rests his chin on Ashton’s shoulder. Ashton rests his hands over Luke’s, leans back into his body.

“Having a good break so far?” Luke asks, beginning to nip gently at the juncture of Ashton’s neck with his teeth.

Ashton tips his head back. “I’ve got you here, haven’t I?”

Luke laughs into Ashton’s skin. “Gay.”

“Very funny, Luke,” Ashton says, turning in Luke’s arms. He lets his hands settle on the curve of Luke’s arse. He squeezes softly, and Luke whines. “’M not gonna fuck you,” he tells him. “Not tonight.”

“Didn’t ask you to,” Luke says back, resting his own hands on Ashton’s arse, slid into the pockets of the jeans he’s still wearing. Head hung low, his lips return to Ashton’s neck, but this time accompanied by less teeth and more tongue, the wet sound making Ashton squirm uncharacteristically. Luke loves it. It’s not every day he can make Ashton squirm. “Bit tired if I’m honest with you. All that modelling, y’know?”

“ _So_ stressful,” Ashton agrees with a cheeky smile. “Surprised you're still standing.”

Luke hums, moving his hands from Ashton’s pockets to drape his arms over his shoulders. “You should carry me to bed.”

Ashton peers over Luke’s shoulder. They’re literally three feet from their bed. “Up,” he says anyway, slipping his hands to Luke’s thighs, and braces himself for Luke to wrap his legs around his hips, not quite bothering to go all the way up to his waist. In reality, Luke doesn’t end up that much off the ground, his heels pressing into Ashton’s lower legs. This used to be a lot easier, Ashton remembers as he staggers forward, hitting the edge of the bed in no time.

Legs hanging off the bed, neither of them move to untangle themselves. Instead, trapped beneath him, Luke kisses Ashton, hands cupping his face. When he eventually let’s go, Ashton jerks his head away only to lean down again, pressing a dozen or so close-lipped kisses to the underside of Luke’s jaw.

Ashton eventually falls asleep that night, Luke’s arms and legs enveloping him, and wakes up much the same, the sweat on Luke’s chest and his back sticking them together. He physically has to peel himself off Luke.

Once Luke is up, the day follows the same pattern as the day before; breakfast, shower, long stretches of silence as Ashton works, meticulous and light-handed, his lips permanently pursed in concentration. The only difference is Luke’s unease has completely disappeared, replaced by an eagerness to see what Ashton has created, a rejuvenated feeling that Luke would always feel when he would trudge over to Ashton’s from school and see what he’d done that day in art school. Any joy was usually followed by Luke being tricked into helping Ashton study—annoying and boring at the time, but Luke does now possess a relatively broad knowledge of the cubist movement for someone that’s never actually studied art. He got a few blowjobs out of it back in the day, too.

He finishes around four o’clock, just as Luke is beginning to get restless. He takes a step back, stretching out the cramp in his hand. It doesn’t do Luke justice, Ashton thinks, turning his head, but he’s long since accepted that nothing ever will. By all accounts, he’s a good artist, but he’s not some sort of miracle worker. There’s only so much beauty you can capture—mainly because half of Luke’s beauty manifests itself in his personality; a little shy, a little quick tempered, a little obnoxious when drunk, but ultimately a beautiful human being.

“Luke?”

Like he knows it’s done, Luke rolls all the way over, facing Ashton. “Yeah?” he asks, adjusting his soft cock brushing his thigh.

“Do you want to see?”

Luke nods, sitting up and sliding off the bed. He doesn’t bother to stop for clothes on his way over to Ashton, who has taken off his glasses and now holds out one hand for Luke to take. As if he needs the direction, Luke takes Ashton’s hand and lets himself be pulled gently in front of the canvas. Like a doll, Luke lets Ashton move him, back against his chest, and their hands meet properly when Ashton wraps his arms around Luke’s middle.

Luke looks at himself.

“What do you think?” Ashton says, his mouth by Luke’s ear.

What _does_ Luke think? He’s a little surprised, in all honesty. What he imagined to be so sexual, so sensual, in front of him was now intimate. Like some sort of divine being, a soft glow surrounds him. It’s not sharp, not blinding, but it’s _there_ , like everything else but Luke is in soft focus. Even the bruises on his backside look like kisses despite the tell-tale pattern.

“Ashton,” he begins, hands freeing themselves from Ashton’s, fingers moving to grip his forearms instead. “Is my arse really that big?” he says suddenly, train of thought ruined by the shift in his stare. “Jesus Christ—” He reaches out to touch, but Ashton stops him.

“Still wet,” Ashton tells him, fingers wrapped around Luke’s outstretched ones. His fingernails almost graze the canvas. He presses a kiss to Luke’s shoulder as he brings their hands back to Luke’s chest. “So, do you like it?”

“You’re so fucking good,” Luke says, turning around. His hands hold Ashton’s face, and his heart flips when he feels Ashton’s cheeks warm in his hands. He ducks down a little, rubbing their noses together. “So fucking talented.”

Ashton’s own hands rest on Luke’s waist. He squeezes tight. “I’ve got a good muse.”

*

_“There is also a third kind of madness, which is possession by the Muses, enters into a delicate and virgin soul, and there inspiring frenzy, awakens lyric....But he, who, not being inspired and having no touch of madness in his soul, comes to the door and thinks he will get into the temple by the help of art--he, I say, and his poetry are not admitted; the sane man is nowhere at all when he enters into rivalry with the madman.”_

    ― Plato

**Author's Note:**

> [fic edit](https://vintageashton.tumblr.com/post/156751013506/a-third-kind-of-madness-by-canarybird-lukeashton) if you so wish to share.


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